


Two Lonely Things

by brokensongbird



Series: you always let me down so tenderly [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Flirting, Getting Together, M/M, Obliviousness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Relationship, Stubborness, ew feelings, general these two idiots are idiots-ness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22718029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokensongbird/pseuds/brokensongbird
Summary: Sequel to Let's Stay Up All NightThere's an art to being a good business partner, right, and most of it is being on time and actually showing up to the meetings - its a pretty basic requirement but apparently Alfie is going to have to evaluate his expectations.Alfie gets stood up for a business meeting and demands dinner in payment.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: you always let me down so tenderly [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604818
Comments: 12
Kudos: 146





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alfie's POV

Alfie Solomons has never, ever been described as gentle. Not that he’d ever had anything of quality of which to be particularly gentle about, you see, and a life lived between fistfights and gunfights and general get-them-killed-before-you-die-yourself scraps that the higherups pass off as the glory of war, a life like that never gave too much opportunity to hold something fragile between bloodied fingers, you know?

But then in walked Tommy bloody Shelby and Alfie found that maybe he wanted to try. It wasn’t like Shelby was at all fragile or vulnerable himself and Alfie sure as hell knew that between his attitude and his reputation, but there was a voice that whispered beside the roar of his own in his magnificent brain, that said _careful with this one_ andwhen his mind spoke he was typically inclined to listen to it. So he looked at this man, this mess of a man with shattered glass eyes and knife-sharp wit and he didn’t know if he had to be careful, to be oh so gentle to stop Tommy from shattering further or to avoid getting cut himself but it was a challenge Alfie Solomons was willing to undertake.

And who could blame him for trying to wine-and-dine him a little in the process? Not like the bastard ate apart from nibbling on a few grapes or drank anything but whiskey but whatever. And yeah, like it’s been said a hundred million times, Tommy Shelby does happen to have incredible eyes but that’s not where this little infatuation truly started.

Because he was only little, right – even though they were the same height, first impressions are cast in stone – but Tommy had ambitions that would fill the darkest corners of the universe with their sheer audacity and he didn’t seem to care how small he was at all, the littlest fish about to take on an ocean full of sharks armed with a razor blade and a bad temper. _That_ was what got Alfie’s attention.

The next time he heard from Tommy though, did not give him any time to prod at his psyche like Alfie had wanted. It was the first time that Alfie Solomons of Camden Town had ever been to Birmingham and unfortunately, if it all went to plan, it would be far from the last. He had been summoned up by telegraph, only half as offended as he really ought to be, to discuss ‘matters of intrinsic importance’, so forgive Alfie for assuming, right, that this meant another nice meal and some truly admirable attempts at flirting would follow, to mellow out a truly serious evening. Of course, that’s not what happened though, the Brummie savages, because no sooner had he exited his car was there the tell-tale bluntness of a gun ruining his (for once) neat beard.

“Afternoon, Mr Solomons,” said some fucker in a stupid cap. There was no point learning who exactly it was because it was clearly not Tommy and so was not someone that he was interested in dealing with.  
“Yeah, it is – well done, poppet. Now you want to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“Nothing at all, Mr Solomons. Mr Shelby requested that we escort you to the meeting, is all.”

“He did, did he? Did he order the militia too? He’s so considerate, our Tommy, ain’t he, such a good boy, knows I can’t relax without a gun pressed against me head.”

“That wasn’t the Mr Shelby we were referring to, sir.”

Now, what the fuck did _that_ mean? Okay, Birmingham was a bit far for Alfie to consider himself in the loop, but everyone and their giddy aunts knew that Tommy Shelby was the leader of the Peaky Blinders after that little jaunt with Kimber. If he was being taken to see one of the lackey brothers instead, he was going to be pissed.

And now, instead of conducting business in an office, or at least a pub like a sane fucking person, the hoard of Blinder men took Alfie and the three of his own men to a run-down, mud-covered, shit-smelling scrapyard on the edge of the canals. Tommy really had been living it up in London, if this is where he does business.

The cold barrel that had seemed to have a permanent residence in his neck made it very difficult for Alfie to accurately survey the area, which was kind of unnecessary because he was just as threatened if the gun had been pointed at his head from a foot away, maybe. But from whatever angle he could see, there was a table, legs buried an inch into the muck and a single chair that he was quickly pushed into.

As he sat, the fucker with the gun decided to migrate from his neck to the back of his skull, knocking his hat and his kippah into the mud in the process. “Whoops.”

Oh, he was so going to kill this one.

Before he had the chance to, someone had already bent down to pick them up.

“Now, that wasn’t very nice, lads. Benjy, get that cleaned for the man, will ya?”

The man had dark brown hair, shaved stupidly short on the sides, and kept so hilariously long on top that it had to be gelled back to keep it out of his face. Speaking of his face, there was a slug that seemed to be living on it. _Never trust a man with just a moustache,_ he’d told Tommy last week, _creeps the lot of ‘em. Either shave your face, or don’t – half-arsing it is the sign of a vain man with bad taste._ See Tommy who shaved everyday was obviously vain, but he did a good thing not hiding that jawline, whereas Alfie just didn’t particularly care to give a fuck.

So, here was a vain man with bad taste trying desperately to scrabble some power over Alfie – the location, the guns, the fake concern over his clothing, the fucking chair with one leg shorter than the rest – and was probably the alluded too Mr Shelby. Not the younger one, unless Tommy invested in some of that miracle cosmetic shit they sold to women by the tonnes. The eldest, the most insecure in his position. Letting his baby brother run the business may be good for everything except the man’s ego it seems from his attempts at intimidation. Not as clever as Tommy by half.

“Arthur Shelby,” he confirmed, sticking his hand out for a shake that Alfie resolutely ignored.

“Never would have guessed that, mate, it seems your brother got all the looks in the family.”

Arthur appeared offended at that, wiping his rejected hand on his waistcoat. Then he cleared his throat, pulled a chair out of nowhere, still trying to maintain an air of friendliness despite the sour look on his face. Wonder on who’s orders.

“Speaking of said beautiful brother, where is Tommy? ‘Cause no offense, Arthur was it? I’d much rather be dealing with the boss here.”

“Tommy’s busy. I’m the one you’re doing business with now.”

Oh, now that was rude. He’d been summoned and the man couldn’t even be bothered to receive him. For a brief second something that felt like insecurity flashed through Alfie’s veins, but it was so foreign that the utter surprise that it aroused took its place almost instantly. Insecurity? Alfie Solomons? Fucking laughable, mate. It was that horrible little voice again, the one with the warning, the gentle advice that got him walking into this situation in the first place. But it was wrong wasn’t it, because there was no way Alfie had read Tommy wrong, not from the little reactions that had slipped out from his control. The way his voice had been so hesitant when he’d asked Alfie to stay – there was no misreading that. There was no denying that the little tremor had Alfie weak at the knees both then and now, aching to reach out and reassure him.

No, Tommy didn’t come to see him because _he_ was the insecure one, wasn’t he? He wanted Alfie on the back foot, so he’s kept what Alfie really wanted out of reach, that smart boy, and in the process, he doesn’t have to confront Alfie or how Alfie had made him vulnerable. And that wouldn’t do.

“Something more important than me? Let him know that he’s hurt my feelings, will you? We were getting along so well last week.”

“Mr Solomons –” Arthur’s sentence trailed off as Alfie made to stand up. He was going to continue to try with playing at being a businessman, but he was too busy telling all of his men to stand down as every gun in the 6-metre radius was trained on Alfie’s head. And they did stand down, eventually, maybe the sixth or seventh time Arthur told them too.

“No, no, I want you to tell your brother that if he wants us to do business than we will conduct business in a respectable goddamned establishment if one can be found in this fucking landfill of a city, and the only face I want to see is his pretty one, alright? No lackies, no brothers and no fucking threats – we’re civilised people ain’t we? Right? So, I’m going to get up now, and I’m going to my hotel, yeah, and next time will be better, won’t it? Because I don’t like people wasting my _fucking_ time, Artie.”

Alfie walked away from the table and faced the man from earlier, the one with the gun glued to his hand. He was a few inches taller than Alfie, having to crane his neck down slightly to glare back into his eyes. Well, if he had a neckache, Alfie Solomons could help. So, he pulled back his fist and planted his knuckles right into that fucker’s nose and down he went like a foal that’s not yet learnt how to walk, face in the same patch of dirt that he’d landed Alfie’s hat in earlier. There, now he couldn't feel his neck anymore. And speaking of the hat –

“Oh, and tell Tommy to bring my hat and kippah tonight, yeah, Artie? The Queen’s, 8pm.”

They needed to have a talk.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all my desire is here before you,  
>  whether or not I speak of it:  
> I'd seek your favor, for an instant, then die—  
>  if only you would grant my wish.  
> I'd place my spirit in your hand,  
>  then sleep—and in that sleep find sweetness.  
>  \- Yeduha Halevi

It had been only a week since their ~~dinner~~ meeting in London and yet they needed to adjust the plan again. It honestly could have been done on the phone, but the invitation had been sent before Tommy fully realised what it would mean, that he was expected to spend time with Solomons again, let the man talk him in circles again. However, as necessary as sending the discussion was, his presence technically wasn’t, because it wasn’t complicated business was it? Arthur could handle one meeting without him while Tommy spent some time sorting out the income from the protection rackets.

The office door creaked off of its hinges as Arthur entered. His brother swore, trying in vain to fix it and each second Tommy didn’t know how it had all gone down he became increasingly frustrated until Arthur was forced down into a chair, glass of whiskey in one hand and the door leaning a little sadly out in the corridor.

They were going to have to replace the door, again. If John doesn’t stop slamming doors, Tommy was going to tie his tooth to the doorknob like when they were kids and have a go at slamming them shut himself. See the big game John would have to talk to explain _that_ to Esme.

“Hey Tom,” Arthur started, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that meant that the next sentence was going to make Tommy reach for either his gun or his whiskey. “There was, uh, an issue with the meeting with Solomons.”

Once, Polly had told him that he underestimates his brothers’ competences, that he should trust them all with more information, and as annoyed as he was with the situation there was a latent twinge of vindication knowing he won that argument, even if he was never going to bring it up with her again.

But fucking hell.

He _knew_ that he should have gone to the meeting himself instead of attending other business, he shouldn’t have let anyone else deal with Solomons. But the problem was he really didn’t want to deal with Solomons either and that’s an issue because he hardly ever actually wanted to go to meetings but he didn’t let his personal feelings get in the way, he showed up and he got what he needed no matter the situation. But with Solomons, after that meeting in London, after seeing how easily that man could get through Tommy’s walls, it made him nervous.

And now he was making life even more difficult.   
“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Well, he fucking left, didn’t he? Said he was only going to deal with you, and then walked out, the arrogant bastard.”

“What exactly did he say?”

* * *

“I heard you walked out of the meeting with my brother today.”

“Hello, Tommy. Do your people not say hello? A million words for theft and not one devoted to pleasantries. Some may call it rude, but I see the efficient beauty in bluntness.”

The prick was baiting him, he knew it. He was sitting at the restaurant table, steepled fingers resting on his stomach and looking up at Tommy like he wasn't making this a thousand times more difficult than it really needed to be.

Stubborn bastard.

Now, did Tommy respond in kind and refuse to sit - standing over the expensive red tablecloth until Solomons deigned himself to behave like an adult? Refuse to speak until he received an apology for the provocation? He would never speak again at that rate, but he was angry enough to try it, or perhaps angry enough to hit the man and walk out. Unfortunately, all of this would make a scene and Solomons had chosen his battleground well.

They were in the Queen Hotel Restaurant - it was as far from the picturesque little place Solomons had taken him to last week. Instead of being chosen for its relative anonymity, this place was crawling with what could be considered Birmingham's high life - men with jewelled fingers around slim crystal glasses and woman with an air of smug superiority, having lacklustre conversations with one ear not for their partner but trawling the room for the next scandal.

Tommy sank into the white linen-covered chair, throwing one leg over the other, cigarette smoke curling into a dance over their heads - the picture of nonchalance, despite both men knowing who won that battle of wills. Solomons' lips curled into a grin under his gold beard, the smug fucker.

"Kushti divvus, Mr Solomons," he bit back in Romani, just to prove a point. The effect was lost though, because although the words were a perfectly ordinary 'good day', Tommy felt the need to whisper, like the language had no place in a place as refined as this. And normally, he tried not to speak it at all in public - but Solomons' face didn't change, didn't warp into the usual discomfort that the regular upstanding citizen couldn't hide. Strangely, it filled him with confidence to remember that Solomons had faced his fair share of persecution too. These two men being allowed into a restaurant like this, whispering in their own languages felt revolutionary.

Bloody fucking hell, the man had spoken barely a sentence, and Tommy beginning to trust him again. Forgetting who Solomons was, why they were there and what they were to each other. They were not friends. They had no shared history and nothing to bond them aside from business and he needed to remember this, urgently.

"Now, would you like to tell me why you refused to speak to my brother?" It would have made this all so much easier - Arthur seemed to hate the man already, just like Tommy probably should.

"Well, he's just not as nice to look at frankly. Much rather be sitting opposite you if I have to talk about such boring fucking work."

Tommy shook his head; he didn't know what to do with that. Normally, if someone complimented him so recklessly, they were desperate for a deal or for a fuck, but they already had a deal.

"There's been rumours running around the men now, that you think I'm pretty."

Tommy had been called pretty often as a child: high cheekbones and large eyes had led more than a few well-to-dos to believe he was some harmless girlish thing - right up until he robbed them blind. When robberies changed to racketeering and his curls were hidden by a razor-blade crown, people had stopped calling him pretty. Except, of course, Alfie fucking Solomons, who called him beautiful in front of 14 of his men and his eldest brother just for shits and giggles.

"I think you're bloody captivating, Tommy - like a fire that's only seconds away from blazing out of control. I'd rather watch you burn the whole fucking place down than extinguish you though, so got to be careful, yeah? Very fucking careful."

It was a compliment, sure, but there was something in the way Alfie had said it, - extinguish what? His life? Tommy had to be careful or Solomons would have him killed, and it would be a shame, of course, because the wild mad-man of a rival thinks he's pretty - was that what was hidden in those words? But the tone wasn't menacing, it didn't ring with any particular weight either.

The candle between them flickered. Tommy coughed. He didn't know how to respond to these threats, aside from just telling the man to fuck off, but that wasn't exactly an option. Ignoring it would be easier, probably.

"The man who ousted the Black Country boys was one of your own, Mr Solomons," Tommy saw the raised eyebrow and promptly carried on, not caring at all if Solomons was disappointed by his response, "and is unaffiliated with Shelby Company Ltd. and I have it on good authority that he was boasting about the plan in one of your own pubs."

"On who's very good authority would that be?" Solomons sighed, like he couldn't face the banality of the job, not even bothering to look Tommy in the eyes anymore.

"A Lee man, posted in Camden Town."

"And the Lee's are to be trusted because?" he twisted the large ring on his middle finger several times, oh-so-bored like.

"They're family," Tommy shrugged. It had been hard work getting the Lees to trust him and to learn to rely on them in turn, and apparently Alfie also knew of their contentious history by the way his eyes shot right back up.

"Family. Family? Weren't you at war with them last year? Your name carved into one of those fucking revenge bullets and all, and I'm meant to trust their information?"

"Through the marriage of my brother, John and his wife, Esme, the Lees are loyal to the Shelby family."

"A marriage you arranged, I heard. Sold your own brother like cattle, so excuse me, right, for thinking maybe family isn't the thing to rely on." Solomons shifted in his seat.

He leant forwards - rolled-up rough cotton sleeves on the table linen, burnished gold rings clinking against fine bone china, and as he moved, he seemed to grow in size until his face was the only thing Tommy was capable of seeing.

Whether it was because there was nothing left in the world to look at or because looking away would feel like losing somehow, Tommy was transfixed on the blaze that sparked to life in Alfie's eyes. Now, he could tell why this meeting felt so different, so cold compared to the playful warmth that had sparked through him when they last met - Solomons was annoyed with him. 

" - But that's what you people do, yeah? Selling yourself to the highest bidder. Are you going to buy a nice little bride yourself, next? An Italian girl and you can call Sabini your fucking family, see if he stabs you in the back. - No, no, that's not right. You've still got two more brothers to sell off for business. You'd get yourself someone respectable, won't you? A rich little miss, with a family full of Dukes and Lords and a neck full of diamonds for you to parade around so that everyone can admire these two pretty rich things, that's what you want."

"You have no fucking idea what I want," Tommy spat, feeling like he had been scrubbed raw; Alfie's words scratching and tearing at every part of him until he was laid bare, itching with the desire to fight back. He still couldn't see anything but Alfie's face, but it felt wrong to think about the man's surprisingly gentle eyes or the handsome slope of his nose when all he wanted to do right now was put a fist through them.

"Perhaps not, Tommy boy. But I think I know exactly what you need."

The candle flickered; if Tommy paid enough attention, he probably would have seen the warning signs in the flame. But he wasn't paying attention to the candle, he still was staring dumbly at Alfie's stupidly confident face, smug like he knew the answers to questions you wouldn't even know to ask.

After a few seconds, Tommy found his voice, buried somewhere under a wave of anger, because why the fuck wouldn't he want that? What was so wrong with wanting someone? Why was he letting this infuriating man get under his skin?

"Can we get back to business, Mr Solomons?" he tapped the table, impatiently. His fingers itched to take out another cigarette but the one between his lips wasn't going down fast enough - was he forgetting to breathe? His mind was too busy swinging between abject loathing, overthinking the easy camaraderie, and embarrassing anticipation.

"Oh, you're all about fucking business _now_ , ain't you. What about my wasted morning, where were you and your fucking business then?"

"Busy."

"So, it's all on your schedule then, Mr Shelby," Alfie scoffed. "I'm sorry if I inconvenienced you by turning up at the time you fucking arranged. Now I know you ain't a fucking coward, so explain to me why you were hiding from me."

"Excuse me?" He wasn't hiding from him, he had legitimate business to see to, he was running a fucking empire here now that he shot Kimber and he was about to say so too except his mouth wasn't really cooperating quickly enough.

"See, Tommy, I like you - probably more than I should like a crazy little gypsy with a bashed in face and ambition bigger than the fucking sun, right, but I do - "

"That's why you keep threatening me, eh?" Tommy interrupted, having enough of the bullshit platitudes getting into his head and making him like the man even more.

"What fucking threats?" Alfie looked genuinely bewildered, which made absolutely no sense. "The gun? I thought you would know that was a silly test, a smart boy like you."

The gun was the only thing that Solomons had done that had reassured Tommy. It was familiar at least, unlike whatever psychological shite Alfie had been spouting all evening.

"You want to beat me and mark me like Sabini? You want to 'extinguish me'?" Tommy said slowly, like he was talking to a child, which was a dangerous move considering this particular man-child had forearms like tree trunks.

Alfie just blinked, however; his jaw hanging slightly open as though Tommy had said that he was playing Widow Twankey in the upcoming pantomime and not just reiterating the man's own words back to him.

"I think you'll find that I said I _didn't_ want to fucking extinguish you and comparing me to that Italian twat is even ruder than you fucking ignoring me this morning, got to tell you."

"Then what the fuck were you doing?"

"I was flirting with you, you absolute fucking muppet."

For the first time since in three years, since coming home from the mud and the stench of blood-soaked poppies, Tommy's brain went completely silent. 

The entire room seemed to go silent too with that declaration, all the background murmuring disappeared like the entire population of Birmingham was waiting on baited breath for his response. But he didn't have one, he didn't know what to fucking say.

Probably should have been a derisive laugh and a polite brush-off because Tommy Shelby couldn't be a fucking queer, could he? People probably expected that from him, or maybe a punch in the face for the audacity of the insinuation - that would have been the simplest way to go, the carefully chosen audience be damned.

But he couldn't. He couldn't get the rejection off from the tip of his tongue where it sat like lead. _I'm sorry for the confusion, Mr Solomons but I'm not interested_ , those were the words that were choking him.

Because they weren't true, he realised. Some mix of horror and anticipation curled in his gut as the silence stretched on, past the point of awkwardness.

"You can't say shit like that out loud," he finally replied. Alfie just shrugged as though he were discussing the fucking weather.

" _All my desire is here before you, whether or not I speak of it_."

"You can't say shit like that either, Alfie."

"Why not? Desire is desire, ain't it? It's not going away just because you don't like the words - I like your face and I like your attitude. I want you, and I can give you exactly what you need."

"Not what I want?" Tommy leant in, curiously. Alfie leant further in too, so close that the candle was going to burn one of their noses.

"No, I don't think anyone can give you that, mate, what with your lofty expectations of life," Alfie snorted. "Anyways, I don't need you to want me, do I? I'm not a thing most people desire what with this fucking face God gave me, covered in scars that I gave myself. Not saying you need me either, but what you do need is to fucking relax and let someone take good, proper care of you, and I am up to the challenge."

And wasn't that just the offer of the century?

Now that Tommy had given his brain a few minutes to properly process the information that Alfie Solomons had thrown at him; he did have to admit that he was tempted.

There was an attraction that was an undercurrent, winding its way through every minute that he had spent in the man's company, Tommy just hadn't realised it until he was confronted with it.

He was interested in Alfie. How could he not be? A person with that much raw power; in their intellect, in their physical presence, and in their resources; no matter their gender, was going to be someone worth his time. Then to go and make matters worse, Tommy genuinely enjoyed Alfie's company.

"I like your face too, you mad man."

The grin he got in response was blinding.

"Thank you very much, love. And see? You admitted something personal and the room didn't fucking implode. No one has looked up from their shitty much-too-expensive wine, and they still won't care if you walk out with me now," Alfie announced, pulling himself up from the chair with an assuredness that rather ruined the effect of him leaning heavily on his wooden cane. 

"Where are we going? You haven't even eaten anything."

"Fancy place like this? They'll bring something up to the room just to please Thomas Shelby, won't they?"

"And I'm coming up to your room because?"

Alfie displayed his empty hands in a flourishing gesture.

"My hands are full. You'll have to carry my hat and kippah for me."

Tommy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Alfie's hands were both wrapped around the top of his cane, and not to mention the fact that they were articles of clothing that Alfie could just fucking wear up to his room because well - it was rude to wear a hat indoors. And he didn't know the rules about kippahs. So, Tommy, ever indulgingly, followed Alfie into the foyer of the fanciest hotel he had stayed in to date, then told the concierge to bring some food up to their room and didn't spare a glance for anyone other than the man walking beside him.


End file.
